Travelogue: Kathmandu
In the airport waiting for the flight to Nepal. I am unshowered as the water in India has rebelled against me a third time. First by refusing to warm and now by refusing to run at all. I’m thoroughly annoyed at the shapelessness of the potato sacks I had made for me in Delhi. I hope to fix it so they more closely resemble shalwar kameez among the less exploitative Nepalese. There is no pork or beef in India so I’m stuck with these Subway overspiced chicken meatballs…
I can no longer tell the difference between showered and unshowered and I’m in a perpetual state of itchy.
* * *
A welcome respite. The Kathmandu airport is a godsend. On high ground with an arresting view of the Himalayas, I am misled to think that all of Nepal is an idyllic yogi resort. You could almost hear the Buddhist chanting until, that is, you reach the city and the narrow streets of infamous Thamel whereupon all I can think to do is sit at an outdoor café drinking Asahi and eat a spring roll. I think I’m on the so-called freak street and good god does it cater to tourists! The mountain-climbing hippie sort. An Eric Clapton song is playing and it reminds me of my father, who told me that Clapton wrote this song after his son died. I must write my dad and tell him. One can't do much else besides be lamentful when one is alone in a strange country and so I spend the better part of an hour thinking of how to be a better daughter.
I can no longer tell the difference between showered and unshowered and I’m in a perpetual state of itchy.
* * *
A welcome respite. The Kathmandu airport is a godsend. On high ground with an arresting view of the Himalayas, I am misled to think that all of Nepal is an idyllic yogi resort. You could almost hear the Buddhist chanting until, that is, you reach the city and the narrow streets of infamous Thamel whereupon all I can think to do is sit at an outdoor café drinking Asahi and eat a spring roll. I think I’m on the so-called freak street and good god does it cater to tourists! The mountain-climbing hippie sort. An Eric Clapton song is playing and it reminds me of my father, who told me that Clapton wrote this song after his son died. I must write my dad and tell him. One can't do much else besides be lamentful when one is alone in a strange country and so I spend the better part of an hour thinking of how to be a better daughter.
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